THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS  BY 
THOMAS  WALTER  BUCHANAN. 


One  hundred  and  fifty  copies  of  this  book  were 
printed  at  the  Marion  Press,  in  June,  1899. 
This  copy  is  No.    / 


POEMS 


BY 


THOMAS  WALTER  BUCHANAN 


THE  MARION  PRESS 

JAMAICA,  QUEENSBOROUGH,  NEW-YORK 

1899 


Copyright,  1899,  by  MRS.  DUNCAN  BUCHANAN. 


ft  I  I 


PUBLISHED  BY 

THE  CLASS  OF  EIGHTEEN  EIGHTY-NINE, 
YALE  COLLEGE. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 
SCHOOL-DAY  VERSES  : 

To  L.  L.  D 15 

From  "  The  Song  of  Mirimichi "       .          .  17 

'85  C.  in  Review       .          .          .          .  19 

On  Mountain  Day  .          .          .          .  21 

O  Nos  Beati      ......      23 

Fragment       .          .          .          .          .          .  26 

The  Storm         ......      27 

To  the  Class  of  '85,  Williston  Seminary     .  29 

To  the  Swallows         .          .          .          .          -3° 

To  the  Swallows    .          .          .          .          .  31 

To  the  Swallows         .          .          .          .  32 

To  Agnes  Mabel    .          .          .          .          .  34 

Verses      .......      36 

The  Cliffs  of  Yorlo         .          .          .          .  37 

The  Legend       .          .          .          .          .          .40 

The  Spectre  .....  42 

Chorus  of  the  Seabirds          .          .          .          -44 
The  Legend  of  Saint  Altons      ...  46 

9 


CONTENTS. 

COLLEGE  YEARS,  1885-1889: 

Dreams    .          .          .          .          .          .  -53 

Verses           ......  54 

The  Scottish  Bard       .          .          .          .  -55 

Beyond  the  Clouds           ....  56 

Translation         .           .           .           .           .  -57 

Translation   .           .           .           .           .           .  58 

Translation         .           .           .           .           .  -59 

Drinking  Song        .....  60 

Chivalry  .           .           .          .           .           .  .61 

Suspiria         .          .          .          .          .          .  62 

Unphilosophy    .           .           .           .           .  .64 

'Oh,  Life  is  Fair' 66 

Nina  Glencairn            .           .           .           .  -67 

Class  Poem,  1889            .          .          .          .  68 

LATER  POEMS  : 

The  Jester's  Return     .          .          .          .  91 

A  Whilom  Love     .          .          .          .          .  92 

Triolet     .......      93 

Rondeau        ......  94 

Triolet     .          .          .          .          .          .  -95 

Rondeau        ......  96 

'When  Phyllis  Moves'         .          .          .  -97 

Triolet  08 


CONTENTS. 

Rondeau  .                    .  .          .          .          -99 

Ballad  of  Experience       .  .          .          .100 

Rondel     .           .          .  .           .           .           .102 

North            .          .           .  .          .          .103 

South        .          .          .  .          .          .          .104 

On  the  Stile            .          .  .          .          .105 

Serenade  .          .          .  .          .          .          .106 

A  Winning  Pair      .           .  .          .          .107 

Madrigal 108 

Thrice  Crowned    .          .  .          .          .109 

'  Cease  Your  Song '  .          .          .          .    1 1  o 

Ballad  of  the  Years           .  .          .          .         1 1 1 

'  Thought  is  Young '   .  .          .          .          .    1 1 3 

Sonnet          .          .          .  .          .          .         114 

An  Imitation  of  Browning  .          .          .          -115 

Hope  .          .          .          .  .          .          .118 

'  Over  the  Great  Divide '  .          .          .119 

At  Eastertide  i  2 1 


SCHOOL-DAY  VERSES. 


TO  L.  L.  D. 

Gloomy  darkness  broods  in  air, 

And  droops  her  sable  wing, 
While  queenly  Nox  the  lone  hour  mocks, 

And  the  stars  their  anthems  sing. 

The  stars  gleam  bright  in  the  azure  deep 

Above  the  horizon's  bar, 
But  the  swaying  lines  of  pointed  pines 

Break  the  rays  of  the  lone  pole  star. 

Ruddy  tongues  of  dancing  flames 

On  the  inky  wall  of  space 
Paint  many  a  scene  and  view  between 

With  a  weird,  majestic  grace. 

The  light  leaps  up  in  jagged  flame, 

And  glints  on  foliage  green, 
As  the  swaying  trees  in  the  midnight  breeze 

Seem  fringed  with  a  changing  sheen. 


TO  L.  L.  D. 

Around  this  roaring,  cheerful  fire, 
In  the  midst  of  the  sylvan  scene, 

On  a  verdant  rise  'neath  star-gemmed  skies 
There  rest  on  the  moss-grown  green 

Those  who  wear  a  crescent  of  gold 
O'er  hearts  that  beat  more  true, 

For  the  bosoms  of  all  do  rise  and  fall 
Like  the  tides  of  the  ocean  blue. 


16 


FROM  "THE  SONG  OF  MIRIMICHL" 

When  the  moon  in  all  her  splendor 
Waded  through  the  cloud-flecked  heaven, 
Drove  the  shadows  from  the  forest, 
Lighting  up  the  darkest  places, 
When  the  winds  were  sharply  blowing 
From  the  country  east  or  northward, 
When  they  beat  the  Nashawannuck 
Till  the  running  ripples  swelled  up, 
Sprang  up,  kissed  the  sand  and  pebbles 
Lying  in  the  grass  and  rushes, — 
Then  the  guardian,  Mirimichi, 
Plucked  a  branch  from  off  the  hemlock, 
Waved  it  o'er  the  rocking  surface, 
Singing  some  weird  incantation 
Known  to  him,  and  to  him  only. 

Then  the  romping  winds  turned  sadly 
From  their  sport  upon  the  waters ; 
Slept  they  'neath  the  pine  tree's  needles, 
In  the  bosom  of  the  hemlocks, 
In  the  shadow  of  the  cedars. 
And  the  running  waves  grew  smaller 
Till  the  surface  stood  like  silver, 
Till  the  ripples  ceased  their  murmur, 
Ceased  to  kiss  the  bending  rushes. 


FROM  "THE  SONG  OF  MIRIMICHI." 

Thus  it  stood  in  all  its  grandeur 

On  the  borders  of  the  Manhan, 

Near  bright  shoals  and  foaming  shallows, 

Where  the  laughing  waters  sprang  down 

Over  crags  and  pointed  ledges, 

Making  music  in  their  tumbling 

Like  the  music  of  immortals, 

Near  the  place  where  now  the  milldam 

Lies  across  the  running  rapids, 

Lies  across  and  checks  the  passage 

Of  the  Manhan  slowly  gliding 

With  the  sound  of  many  thunders, 

With  its  crystal  surface  rolling, 

Ever  gliding  o'er  in  beauty, 

Like  a  reel  that  never  ceases 

Folding  in  a  web  of  silver. 


18 


'8j  C.  IN  REVIEW. 

With  theorists,  rushers,  and  all, 

With  flunkers  and  cavalry  force, 
The  Seniors  sat  in  midnight  review, 

Like  coroners  over  a  corse. 
Some  foreheads  were  knotted  and  dark, 

Some  eyes  like  the  sun  in  eclipse ; 
Some  sat  there,  a  frown  on  their  brow, 

And  some  with  a  smile  on  their  lips. 

With  theories  airy  and  light, 

With  notions  somber  and  grim, 
A  half  dozen  sat  apart  from  the  rest, 

Of  ideas  full  to  the  brim  ; 
Bo  and  Summit  and  Newt, 

Derb  and  Jimmy  and  Pad, 
And  wisely  discussed  which  end  of  the  goat 

The  butt  in  reality  had. 

Rush — rush  —  rush, 

Like  the  rushing  tide  of  time ; 
Rush — rush  —  rush, 

With  energy  sublime. 
Pap  and  Fatty  and  Dick, 

Reed  and  Dieaway  too, 
They  shall  rush  while  time  rolls  on, 

And  lead  with  the  rushing  few. 

19 


'Ss  C.  IN  REYIEW. 

Flunk — flunk — flunk  ! 

Prex  and  Grogan  and  Ho, 
Flunk  —  flunk  —  flunk, 

'T  is  flunk  wherever  they  go; 
Bewk  and  J.  C.  and  Jones, 

"Turba  quae  maxima  est." 
Drop  a  tear  for  their  failings,  boys, 

"God  doeth  all  for  the  best." 

With  eyelids  nor  heavy  nor  red, 

With  never  an  aching  brain, 
Chic  and  the  sweet-voiced  singer  Rob 

Ride  the  saddle  amain. 
Steed  and  pony  and  crib, 

Crib  and  pony  and  steed  ! 
While  one  doth  "crow  "  and  the  other 
"sing," 

As  on  together  they  speed. 


ON  MOUNTAIN  DAT. 

O  Mountain  Day  !  do  you  think  it  was  fair, 

When  the  throbbing  winds  were  sharply  blowing, 

To  tempt  him  out  in  your  bracing  air, 

Under  the  autumn  leaves  earthward  going? 

Was  it  right,  think  you,  O  eddying  breeze, 
When  the  chestnut  burrs  were  fully  apart, 

To  lure  her  there  'neath  the  swinging  trees, 

And  throne  young  Love  in  each  bounding  heart  ? 

They  gathered  the  chestnuts'  princely  store 
From  the  autumn  leaves  and  mosses  bare, 

They  gathered  them  all — yet  looked  for  more, 
When  well  they  knew  that  none  were  there. 

The  breeze  blew  strong  from  the  cloud-flecked  West, 
And  wildly  romped  with  the  blushing  maid, 

Till  she  asked,  had  they  better  not  leave  the  rest? 
And  the  young  man  agreed  to  all  she  said. 

The  playful  wind,  with  mischievous  glee, 

Was  madly,  merrily  doing  its  best 
Under  the  waving  chestnut  tree, 

And — it  blew  her  against  his  throbbing  breast. 


ON  MOUNTAIN  DAY. 

Where  the  young  man  gladly  folded  her  in, 
As  the  winds  sang  on  in  the  boughs  above, 

And  kissed  her  lips  and  her  dimpled  chin, 
There  in  the  shade  of  the  chestnut  grove. 


Q  #03  BEATL 

When  morning  dawns  in  steelgray  gleam 

Along  the  eastern  sky, 
When  pale  star's  ray  and  silver  beam 

With  fleeting  darkness  vie, 
A  deep-mouthed  baying  fills  mine  ear, 

The  forests  echo  round ; 
I  can  but  waken  when  I  hear 

That  full,  melodious  sound. 

I  rouse  me  from  my  piney  bed ; 

My  watcher  standeth  nigh ; 
I  brush  the  dewdrop  from  my  head, 

And  skyward  cast  mine  eye. 
The  murmuring  pine's  unnumbered  hands 

With  incense  lade  the  air; 
In  all  its  strength  the  giant  stands, — 

What  can  with  it  compare  ? 

With  gun  in  hand,  and  dog  with  me, 

For  nothing  else  I  care, 
For  ours  is  all  the  woodland  free, 

And  ours  the  forest  fare. 
I  seek  companionship  with  none 

Except  wild  Nature's  brood, 
And  these  I  court  with  dog  and  gun 

Beneath  the  bracing  wood. 


Q  NOS  BEATL 

I  love  my  rifle's  trumpet  tone, 

That  speaketh  words  to  me 
When  in  the  darkness,  deep,  unknown, 

The  panther's  eyes  I  see ; 
But  far  the  sweetest  sound  I  hear, — 

And  hear  I  Nature's  songs, — 
Breaks  forth  in  accents  deep  and  clear, 

And  to  my  dog  belongs. 

No  foes  have  I  o'er  mountains  gray, 

Except  that  savage  brood 
That  steal  the  bleating  lambs  away, 

And  thrive  on  human  blood. 
Yet  friends  in  plenty  have  I  too, 

Beside  my  dog  and  gun, 
Who  roam  the  greenwood  forest  through 

From  morn  till  set  of  sun. 

Ah,  Nature,  when  I  am  with  thee 

How  swells  my  pulsing  breast ! 
All  your  voices  chant  to  me, 

"Beyond  this  there  is  rest." 
And  every  breath  of  sighing  pine 

Or  sound  of  hemlock  tree 
Bespeaks  that  God  of  Nature,  thine, 

Doth  keep  watch  over  me. 
H 


O  NOS  BEATI. 

Thus  I  am  happy  all  the  day, 

Nor  care  disturbs  my  rest ; 
And  while  I  dream  the  night  away 

The  friend  that  I  love  best 
Keeps  guard  around  from  false  alarms 

That  else  may  break  my  sleep, 
While  o'er  me  hemlocks  fold  their  arms, 

Or  sighing  pine  trees  weep. 


*S 


FRAGMENT. 

For  clouds  may  rise  in  the  noonday  skies, 

Black  with  a  gloomy  fate, 
And  hide  the  day  with  a  pall  of  gray, 

And  the  stars  ne'er  shine  till  late. 

Yet  what  care  I  for  the  tempest's  cry, 
Or  the  gleam  of  the  lightning  bright  ? 

For  she  waits  for  me  'neath  the  linden  tree, 
With  the  heaving  sea  in  sight. 


a6 


THE  STORM. 

You  may  talk  of  moonlight  streaming 
Over  trees  that  have  a  seeming, 
Be  they  beech  or  pine  or  oaken, 

To  be  dancing  in  the  light ; 
And  the  starlight's  twinkling  glimmer 
Growing  brighter,  growing  dimmer, 
By  the  tossing  branches  broken 
Into  gleaming  jewels  bright. 

While  e'er  runs  the  merry  fountain, 
And  the  shadowy  outlined  mountain 
Flings  aloft  its  inky  banner 

'Gainst  the  vaulted  azure  sky ; 
And  the  throbbing  winds  go  stealing 
O'er  one's  heated  senses,  feeling, 
In  the  evening's  moonlit  manor, 
Like  a  white-winged  embassy. 

Such  your  evening  then  for  roaming  ? 
When  the  twilight's  dreamy  gloaming 
Changes  all  her  dusky  features 

To  the  moonlight's  silvery  grace? 
Grandest  is  this  silent  splendor, 
And  the  moonlight,  true  and  tender? 
Common  one  among  God's  creatures, 
With  the  starlight  in  your  face ! 
27 


THE  STORM. 

Give  to  me  that  eve  whose  glimmer 
Dimmer  grows  and  ever  dimmer, 
Till  throughout  the  eve  nigrescent 

Not  a  star  is  seen  to  gleam ; 
Till  in  the  sky  you  cannot  muster 
Enough  of  light  of  silver  luster 

From  that  changing  orb,  the  crescent, 
To  let  one  see  or  seem. 

When  the  thunder  rolls  and  crashes, 
While  the  lightning  burns  in  flashes, 
And  the  winds  are  full  of  showers 

That  fall  in  torrents  down ; 
When  the  forms  of  things,  elastic, 
Take  upon  them  shapes  fantastic, 
Be  it  stalk  of  swaying  flowers, 
Or  be  it  hedges  brown. 

Such  a  night  I  cannot  banish, 
Though  the  tempest  all  may  vanish, 
If  I  heard,  and,  hearing,  listened, 

And  turned  my  eyes  to  see ; 
For  I  saw  the  grandest  forces 
That  e'er  spring  from  Nature's  courses, 
When  the  leaping  lightning  glistened, 
And  the  thunder  rolled  for  me. 
28 


TO   THE  CLASS  OF  '85, 
WILLISTON  SEMINART. 

Our  friendship  then  at  anchor  lay, 
And  proudly  rode  the  years'  green  bay, 
Whate'er  the  night  or  what  the  day 

In  future  time  should  bring. 
For  through  a  rift,  as  the  storm-clouds  drift, 

Hemmed  by  a  golden  ring, 
Appeared  a  sight  like  a  sun  at  night, 

The  sight  of  an  angel's  wing. 

The  radiance  then  like  a  promise  fell 
Across  our  ship  with  a  potent  spell, 
As  she  rode  the  foamy  deep  sea's  swell 

Like  queen  of  the  briny  deep. 
And  every  sail  was  filled  by  the  gale 

That  over  the  waters  sweep ; 
The  masts  bent  low  like  a  chieftain's  bow, 

And  the  mountain  waves  rose  steep. 

Guardian  angel  it  seemed  to  me, 
To  tend  our  ship  on  the  swelling  sea, 
When  mighty  winds  blow  fearfully, 

And  ocean  blue  turns  gray. 
Then  well  did  she  ride  on  the  running  tide, 

Flecked  with  the  snowy  spray, 
Tipped  with  a  gleam  of  the  pale  moon's  beam, 

As  the  moon  in  the  dark  clouds  lay. 
29 


TO  THE  SWALLOWS. 

To  the  Swallows 
On  the  Roof, 

Where  the  Sunlight  Streams. 

Little  dreamers !   sun  yourselves 
On  the  roof  by  tens  and  twelves, 
While  the  early  robin  delves, 

Charily,  charily. 
Busy  idlers  !  flit  along — 
On  the  wing  do  you  belong, 
Flying  high  and  flying  strong, 

Merrily,  merrily. 


30 


TO  THE  SWALLOWS. 

To  the  Swallows 
'  Neatb  the  Eaves, 

Dreaming  Fairy  Dreams, 

Weather  prophets !  where  you  fly, 
Be  it  low  or  be  it  high, 
Foretells  weather  wet  or  dry, 

Truthfully,  truthfully. 
As  the  rain  drips  on  the  leaves, 
How  your  tender  bosom  heaves, 
Looking  out  from  'neath  the  eaves 

Ruthfully,  ruthfully. 


TO   THE  SWALLOWS. 

All  the  day  you  're  on  the  wing, 
To  your  nest  the  insects  bring, 
There  to  feed  your  foundeling, 

Carefully,  carefully. 
And  when  the  setting  sun  hangs  low, 
When  the  cattle  homeward  go, 
You  still  watch  the  nestlings  so 

Prayerfully,  prayerfully. 

Twitter  !  twitter  !     Do  you  say 
Your  work  is  done  at  close  of  day  ? 
When  the  shadows  gather  gray 

Fearfully,  fearfully. 
Sometimes  you  are  working  still 
When  dark  shadows  climb  the  hill, 
And  the  night  winds  whistle  shrill, 

Tearfully,  tearfully. 

Then  build  your  nest  of  plastic  walls 
'Neath  the  shingle  waterfalls, 
Better  far  than  marble  halls, 

Built  so  airily. 

Twitter  still  as  you  have  done, 
When  the  day  has  scarce  begun, 
Or  the  ruddy-breasted  sun 

Sets  so  fairily. 

3* 


TO   THE  SWALLOWS, 

Welcome  you  shall  ever  be, 
Summer  here  with  mine  and  me, 
Fly  o'er  grassy  lawn  and  lea 

Warily,  warily. 

Little  dreamers  !  sun  yourselves 
On  the  roof  by  tens  and  twelves, 
While  the  robin  digs  and  delves, 

Charily,  charily. 


TO  AGNES  MABEL. 

A  maiden  she  whose  speeding  years 
My  lonely  life  of  sadness  cheers, 
And  to  me  herself  endears, — 

Agnes  Mabel. 

Tall  and  sylph-like  form  hath  she, 
Strong  and  lithe  as  willow  tree, 
Graceful  as  magnolias  be, — 

Agnes  Mabel. 

Jetty  bands  of  flowing  hair 
Falling  round  a  forehead  fair, 
Free  from  furrowed  trace  of  care, — 
Agnes  Mabel. 

Raven  lashes  falling  down 
Over  eyes  of  tender  brown, 
Eyes  that  hold  no  wraith  of  frown, — 
Agnes  Mabel. 

Behind  her  lips  of  blushing  red, 
On  wealth  of  roses  having  fed, 
Teeth  like  orients  rear  their  head, — 

Agnes  Mabel. 
34 


TO  AGNES  MABEL. 

O  throat  as  white  as  driven  snows, 
O'er  which  color  like  the  rose 
Often,  fleeting,  comes  and  goes, — 
Agnes  Mabel. 

Voice  that  speaketh  soft  and  low 
As  the  evening  winds  that  blow 
Where  JEgean  waters  flow, — 

Agnes  Mabel. 

Rippling  laugh  of  merry  glee, 
Sounds  that  ever  seem  to  me 
Like  sweet  strains  of  melody, — 

Agnes  Mabel. 


35 


r ERSES. 

I  've  tired  me  quite  of  the  dusty  town, 
And  the  crowds  in  impetuous  tread, 

Where  the  rays  of  the  sun  fall  hotly  down, 
And  the  very  air  seems  dead. 

I  '11  wend  me  away  to  the  bright  green  fields, 
Where  the  flowers  in  beauty  grow, 

Where  the  clover  red  its  perfume  yields, 
And  the  ox-eyed  daisies  blow. 


36 


THE  CLIFFS  OF  TORLO. 

O  pillars  of  the  lofty  sky ! 
Who  raised  your  towering  peaks  on  high, 
With  clouds  alone  for  company, 
Ye  cliffs  of  Yorlo  ? 

Immutable  watch-towers  of  the  light ! 
The  morning  sun  first  gilds  your  height, 
And  drops  his  last  ray  there  at  night, 
O  cliffs  of  Yorlo. 

When  setting  suns  with  living  fire 
Do  light  thy  rugged  domes  and  spire, 
Cathedral-like  are  ye — but  higher, 
O  cliffs  of  Yorlo. 

Around  thy  peaks  hang  misty  wreaths, 
Tossed  by  wind  that  faintly  breathes, 
While  at  thy  base  the  ocean  seethes, 
O  cliffs  of  Yorlo. 

Against  thy  rocky,  wave-lapped  sides 
Impetuous  beat  the  running  tides, 
And  back  the  white  foam  softly  glides, 
O  cliffs  of  Yorlo. 


37 


THE  CLIFFS  OF  rORLO. 

Around  thy  crags  the  sea-birds  cry, 
Around  their  nests  they  wheel  and  fly, 
While  far  below  the  waters  lie, 
O  cliffs  of  Yorlo. 

O,  can  thy  pointed  domes  and  spires, 
Alive  with  heaven's  resplendent  fires, 
Infuse  the  heart  with  thy  desires, 
Ye  cliffs  of  Yorlo? 

Whene'er  the  zephyrs  faintly  swoon, 
And  hang  thy  crags  with  gray  festoon, 
Men  know  the  tempest  follows  soon, 
O  cliffs  of  Yorlo. 

Ah,  were  those  fissures  in  thy  tower 
But  human  eyes,  and  had  they  power 
To  tell  what  passes  every  hour, 
Ye  cliffs  of  Yorlo, 

What  wondrous  tales,  what  stories  old, 
What  daring  feats  of  seamen  bold, 
Thou  'dst  tell,  which  now  must  be  untold, 
O  cliffs  of  Yorlo. 


THE  CLIFFS  OF  TORLO. 

As  in  an  old  man's  furrowed  face, 
Along  thy  rifted  walls  I  trace 
The  tale  of  Time's  unceasing  race, 
O  cliffs  of  Yorlo. 

On  thee  I  gaze  in  the  moon's  pale  beam, 
Till  mine  Ideal  Self  doth  seem 
To  rise  from  out  my  fevered  dream, 
O  cliffs  of  Yorlo. 

I  cannot  tell  what  ye  have  seen, 
Nor  can  I  read  what  may  have  been, 
But  in  thy  massy  front  serene, 
O  cliffs  of  Yorlo, 

I  can  read  that  those  who  aim 
To  rear  a  monument  to  Fame, 
And  first  build  well,  ne'er  come  to  shame, 
Ye  cliffs  of  Yorlo. 


39 


THE  LEGEND. 

Well  the  old  monastic  volume, 
With  its  bindings  black  and  solemn, 

Which  the  story  's  written  in, 
Tells  the  legend  weird  and  striking 
Of  the  battle  with  the  Viking, 

And  the  sorrow  that  hath  been. 

On  the  beach,  with  billows  breaking, 
In  the  sleep  that  knows  no  waking, 

Lay  the  Corven's  captain  bold. 
And  around  him  lay  his  yeomen, 
'Mong  the  corses  of  his  foemen 

Hither  on  the  breakers  rolled. 

'Neath  the  beach  sand,  faintly  gleaming 
With  a  light  that  had  a  seeming 

To  caress  the  tide-swept  graves, 
Sleep  the  comrades  of  Black  Yorlo, 
With  their  armor  ringing  hollow, 

And  beside  them  Ivan's  braves. 

And  the  ebbing  tides  outflowing 
Leave  the  beach  with  traces  showing 
Where  the  former  buried  lie  ; 


40 


THE  LEGEND. 

For  upon  the  gray  sands'  level, 
Where  the  sporting  billows  revel, 
Drawn  by  tides,  or  drawn  by  devil, 
Are  faint  marks  of  mystery. 

O'er  the  graves  in  which  are  sleeping 
Ivan's  men,  while  tides  are  sweeping 

Swift  above  their  palsied  form, 
Reappears  a  cross  each  morning, 
Each  forgotten  grave  adorning, 

Till  effaced  by  tide  or  storm. 

And  a  symbol  rises,  mystic, 
With  its  figure  cabalistic, 

Where  Black  Yorlo's  comrades  lie ; 
Say  the  sailors,  as  they  mumble 
Ave  Marias,  crossed,  and  humble, 

"Yorlo's  this  diablerie." 

And  they  tremble,  lest  the  phantom 
Of  black  Yorlo  e'er  should  haunt  them 

With  its  augury  of  death  ; 
Which  the  old  monastic  volume, 
In  its  dead  roll,  and  its  column 

Of  disaster,  amply  saith. 

41 


THE  SPECTRE. 

Hath  the  wan  spectre 

Ever  appeared 
In  the  pale  moonlight, 

Frightful  and  weird  ? 

Scaled  he  the  sea  crags 
Reared  up  on  high, 

Stood,  his  gaunt  outline 
'Gainst  the  blue  sky  ? 

Then  death  and  destruction 
Thee  doth  await, 

Caused  by  Black  Yorlo's 
Sinister  hate. 

Saw  you  the  phantom, 
Wrinkled  and  grim, 

Shrouded  by  sea-fog 

Clinging  round  him? 

Was  Yorlo  riding 

On  a  black  mast, 

Torn  from  a  vessel 
Drifting  on  past? 

42 


THE  SPECTRE. 

Did  the  weird  spectre 

Then  disappear, 
While  the  thick  fogbank 

Rose  from  the  mere? 

Then  sealed  is  the  sentence, 
Spoken  thy  doom, — 

The  dark  caves  of  ocean 

Thy  form  shall  entomb. 

Guard  thine  eyes'  vision, 
Him  lest  thou  spy  ; 

Watching  his  treasure, 
Yorlo  is  nigh. 


43 


CHORUS  OF  THE  SEABIRDS. 

Fly  we  high  or  fly  we  low, 
Still  the  world  doth  onward  go ; 

Blow,  ye  beating,  icy  gales, 

On  thy  tides  the  seagull  sails ; 
One  man's  joy's  another's  woe, 
Thus  the  tides  do  ebb  and  flow ; 

Intermingled  songs  and  wails 

Float  upon  these  icy  gales. 

Nest  we  here  or  nest  we  there, 

Weeping  sorrows  one  must  bear ; 
Shine,  ye  red-eyed,  circling  sun, 
This  waning  day  will  soon  be  done ; 

Thus  the  night  of  carking  care, 

With  its  breath  of  prison  air, 

Comes  when  day  its  course  hath  run, 
When  hath  set  the  morning  sun. 

Toil  we  e'er  or  idle  be, 

Wheeling  Time  moves  ceaselessly  ; 
Waxing  night  shall  wane  again, 
Light  will  come  to  patient  men, 

And  the  gloom  that  brave  ones  see 

Looming  in  futurity 

Fades  before  its  chill  they  ken, 
And  the  white  dawn  comes  again. 


CHORUS  OF  THE  SE4BIRDS. 

Sing  we  songs  or  silent  fly, 

Still  all  mortal  things  must  die ; 
Roll,  ye  Ocean,  ever  roll, 
Bathe  the  winds  of  either  Pole ; 

Wide  as  thou  art  wide,  and  high, 

Are  thy  needs,  Humanity ; 

Hampering  each  ambitious  soul 
Doth  some  mystic  current  roll. 

Go  we  South  or  stay  we  here, 
Stormy  winter  holds  no  cheer ; 

Shine  out,  Truth,  and,  shining,  be 
Freed  from  all  uncertainty  ; 
When  thy  white  light  doth  appear, 
Fades  all  gloomy  doubt  and  fear ; 
While,  on  pinions  broad  and  free, 
We  breast  thy  gales,  O  restless  Sea ! 


45 


THE  LEGEND  OF  S4INT  4LTONS. 

By  the  harbor  of  Saint  Altons,  where  the  gaunt  crags 

touch  the  sky, 
Round  whose  summit  scream  the  sea-birds,  ruins  of  a 

kloster  lie. 

But  the  old  monastic  volume,  in  its  covers  iron-bound, 
Clasping  pages  rich  with  legends,  in  the  black  debris 
was  found : 

Telling  how,  in  simple  grandeur,  by  the  sea  the  kloster 
stood, 

While  beneath  its  roof  of  gables  dwelt  a  lowly  brother 
hood  ; 

How  they  humbly  taught  the  peasants  brighter  hopes 

and  purer  love, 
Taught  that  death  was  but  the  passage  to  their  home 

the  stars  above. 

But  the  halls  of  that  old  kloster  echoed  to  a  sterner 

tread, 
While  the  friars  were  at  devotions,  as  the  eastern  sky 

grew  red. 

Then  at  eve  the  dark  marauders,  sailing  straight  into 

the  night, 
Left  the  kloster,  and  the  murdered,  sinking  down  in 

ruddy  light. 

46 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALTONS. 


Still  their  spirits  oft,  returning,  wear  the  long,  dark 

night  away, 
With  their  strange  and  weird  carousals,  o'er  the  ruins 

of  that  day. 

Read  I  through  this  dusty  legend,  and  it  fascinated  me 
With  its  story  of  the  Vikings,  and  its  spirits  of  the  sea. 

Then  I  climbed  the  cliffs  of  Altons,  looking  down 

upon  the  bay, 
Where  I  saw  huge  vessels  anchored,  saw  them  come, 

and  sail  away. 

And  around  me,  o'er  the  gray  crags,  wheeled  the  sea- 
birds  in  the  breeze, 

Till  these  voyageurs  I  likened  to  our  white-winged 
argosies. 

Then  I  linked  the  vague  with  real  in  the  dreamland 

of  my  mind, 
Saw  my  phantasy  existing,  saw  the  real  fancy-lined ; 

Till  I  could  not  quite  distinguish  from  the  vessels  on 

the  sea 
Those  that  sailed  above  in  cloudland,  or  the  sea-birds 

over  me. 


47 


THE  LEGEND  OF  S4INT  4LTONS. 

As  the  setting  sun  was  sowing  brilliant  rays  that 

tipped  each  wave, 
And  with  burnished  golden  splendor  seemed  the 

rocking  sea  to  pave, 

Turned  a  pyramid  of  granite,  took  on  it  the  human 

form, — 
Not  an  aged  sailor  was  he,  whitened  by  the  ocean's 

storm, 

But  he  stood  as  straight  as  plummet,  and  his  brow 

was  white  and  fair, 
Though  upon  it  writ  in  furrows  were  the  lines  of 

heavy  care. 

And  I  saw  the  jutting  ledges  come  to  life,  and  then 

advance, 
Saw  them  wheel  to  mystic  numbers  in  a  wild,  chaotic 

dance. 

These,  I  thought,  were  ancient  corsairs,  Vikings  of  the 

olden  time, 
Round  whose  name  gray  legends  gather,  sung  in  every 

land  and  clime. 


48 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  4LTONS. 

Crossed  they  swords  in  mystic  circles,  weird  the 

chorus  songs  they  sung, 
Drank  they  deep  of  foaming  beakers,  spoke  they  in 

an  unknown  tongue. 

But  a  shudder  touched  their  being,  and  mine  own 

caught  up  the  thrill, 
Till  I  woke  from  out  my  dreaming,  saw  the  rough 

crags  lone  and  still. 

"Those  are  but  dull  spurs  of  granite,  all  is  but  a 

trance,  I  ween  ' ' ; 
And  myself  I  almost  doubted,  disbelieving  what 

I  'd  seen. 

But  I  felt  that  spirit  presence  as  I  paced  the  shore 

along, 
Heard  the  waves  that  wash  the  ruins  chant  that 

ghostly  banquet  song. 


Once  each  year,  when  darkening  shadows  hide  those 

ruins  by  the  sea, 
On  the  crags  —  the  peasants  hear  them  —  feast  those 

corsairs  merrily. 


49 


COLLEGE  YEARS. 

1885-1889. 


DREAMS. 

They  come  like  flashes  of  a  free  soul's  flight, 
Those  nightly  visitors  that  we  call  dreams ; 
Oft,  when  the  weary  form  death's  image  seems, 

They  lightly  smoothe  that  knotted  brow  of  night, 

And  bear  the  soul  away  from  height  to  height ; 
Large  bounds  are  overleapt,  which  mortsl  deems 
Too  high,  and  realms  are  reached  where  glory  beams, 

Where  troubles  flee,  and  darkness  yields  to  light. 

Oh !  can  these  dreams  but  vagrant  fancies  be, 

Inept  eidola,  sleep's  insensate  toll 
Usurped  from  those  who  rest  so  peacefully  ? 

No  !  rather  glimpses  of  the  unchained  soul, 
That,  loosed  from  earth,  from  mortal  fetters  free, 

Doth  spurn  at  space  and  seek  its  proper  goal. 


S3 


VERSES. 

Gone  art  thou  now,  as  the  star  of  the  morning 
Fades  in  the  light  of  the  radiant  dawn ; 

Still  do  we  know  what  realms  thou  'rt  adorning, 
Though  from  our  sight  thy  face  is  withdrawn. 

Gone,  when  the  bud  of  thy  grace  was  unfolding, 
Gone,  ere  its  fragrance  was  shed  on  the  air ; 

Lost  to  the  world  is  the  mind  thou  wast  moulding ; 
Lost  is  thy  beauty  and  promise  so  rare. 

Vain  are  the  hopes  I  had  built  up  about  thee; 

They  share  thy  cold  grave,  beneath  the  green  sod ; 
Drear  is  my  life,  a  drear  desert  without  thee ; 

But  home  art  thou  now  —  at  home  with  thy  God. 


54 


THE  SCOTTISH  BARD. 

O  gentle  Burns,  thy  Muse  since  long 
Hath  silent  been  in  fields  of  song ; 
No  more  it  chants  those  martial  strains, 
Those  sunny  songs  and  sad  refrains ; 
But  yet  the  swain  his  Jessie  woos 
While  birks  are  wet  with  evening  dews, 
And,  breathing  vows  in  songs  of  thine, 
Their  hearts  unite,  their  arms  entwine. 

When  all  thy  sky  was  overcast, 
And  even  faith  was  fading  fast, 
Thy  genius  scattered  gems  of  song 
With  careless  hand  thy  path  along  ; 
But  purer  flights  of  mind  we  see, 
And  richer  sheaves  of  poesy, 
When  age  thy  fuller  life  should  crown 
With  genial  peace  and  calm  renown. 

But,  noble  Bard,  thy  life  was  spent, 
And  sunk  in  gloom  thy  morning  sun, 
Long  ere  thy  work  of  life  was  done ; 
Yet  faithful  hearts  in  reverence  bent 
Shall  be  thy  lasting  monument, 
The  guerdon  thou  hast  won. 


55 


BETOND   THE  CLOUDS. 

Down  on  the  campus,  robed  in  snow, 

Fantastic  shadows  fall, 

Traced  by  the  full-orbed  moon's  white  glow, 
That  doth  pale  and  shiver,  and  shiver  and  flow 

Through  the  elm  trees  dark  and  tall. 

Out  of  the  darkness  comes  a  cloud, 

And,  though  the  moon  shines  free, 
A  shadow  hangs  like  a  deathly  shroud 
Over  the  elms,  which  moan  aloud  — 
Over  the  elms  and  me. 

Darkness  and  fear — twin  brethren  they, 

Who  hold  all  life  in  pawn. 
Still,  though  the  darkness  holds  wide  sway, 
Though  fear  is  mighty,  and  weak  men  stay, 

Remember  that  Truth  shines  on. 


TRANSLATION. 

The  Letter  {Heine}. 

That  letter  thou  hast  written 
Affects  me  like  a  song ; 

Thou  flingst  to  me  the  mitten, 
But  the  note  is  over  long. 

Twelve  pages,  shapely  columns ! 

A  dainty  manuscript ! 
One  never  writes  such  volumes 

To  one  that's  truly  shipped. 


57 


TRANSLATION. 

Thamire  to  the  Roses  (Gc/z). 

My  beloved  a  promise  left  me, 

Here  to  be  when  thou  wert  blown. 

The  time  is  come  —  thou  hast  bereft  me, 
Roses !  here  am  I  alone. 

Lovely  daughters  of  fair  Venus, 
Roses !  spare  my  peace  of  soul ; 

Spare  the  vow  he  spoke  between  us ; 
Close,  oh  close  thy  petals  all ! 


TRANSLATION. 

To  Leucon  (Gleirn). 

Pluck  the  roses  while  they  blow, 
To-morrow's  nof  to-day  ! 

Let  no  hour  unheeded  go, 
The  moments  flit  away  ! 

Wine  and  kisses !  There  is,  see, 

Noble  spoils  to-day  ! 
Know  you  what  to-morrow  '11  be  ? 

The  moments  flit  away  ! 

Deep  regret  is  oft  the  price 
Of  some  good  deed's  delay  ; 

Live  thy  life,  is  my  advice, 
The  moments  flit  away  ! 


59 


DRINKING  SONG. 

Come,  brother,  come  and  drink  with  me ; 

See  now  the  cups  are  streaming ; 
With  copious  glasses  here  will  we 

An  hour  employ  in  dreaming ; 
With  eyes  that  flame  and  cheeks  that  glow- 
In  lively  tones  the  song  doth  flow  ; 

Already  moves  the  drink  divine  ! 

—  More  wine  ! 


60 


CHIYALR  r. 

From  out  the  deep  and  soulless  gloom, 
That  His  own  hand  could  scarce  relume, 
A  voice  was  heard,  as  from  a  tomb, 
'  For  God  and  her  ! ' 

And  straightway  in  that  darksome  time 
The  kloster  bells  began  to  chime 
In  sweet,  rare  tones  of  song  sublime, 
*  For  God  and  her  ! ' 

Athwart  the  gloom  bright  arms  flashed  light, 
While  on  the  lance  he  bore  each  knight 
Inscribed  these  magic  words  of  might, — 
'  For  God  and  her  ! ' 

Then  ghastly  shadows  fled  away, 
And  through  the  darkness  stole  the  grey 
Of  hope's  fair  morning,  and  the  day, 
« For  God  and  her  ! ' 

And  when  at  last  within  its  tomb 
The  knight  had  swept  the  lingering  gloom, 
Achilles-like  he  faced  his  doom, 
'  For  God  and  her  ! ' 

The  knight  is  gone ;  but  yet  we  see 
Within  best  manhood,  beating  free, 
The  ancient  heart  of  Chivalry, — 
'  For  God  and  her  ! ' 
61 


SUSPIRU. 

Hbrvia,  Tr6rvia  vi)|, 

virvodbreipa  ruv  Tro\vir6vuv  fipor&v, 

'Epep66ev  tdi- 

EURIPIDES. 

Hasten,  O  Night !  ye  queenly  transcendent, 
Bearing  sweet  rest  from  the  regions  of  shade, 

Mounted  on  wings,  though  dark,  yet  resplendent, 
That  woo  to  forgetfulness  hillside  and  glade  ! 

Cease  thy  dark  flight  —  a  worn  heart  confesses 

The  peace  that  it  knows  in  thy  silken  caresses ; 

Damp  are  thy  garments  and  damp  thy  black  tresses, 
But  bright  is  thy  crown,  with  starlight  inlaid. 

Soft  be  the  breezes  that  play  on  the  meadows, 
Tender  the  light  of  the  stars  in  the  sky  ; 

Laid  be  the  spirits  whose  shrouds  are  the  shadows 
That  darken  the  heart  and  deaden  the  eye ; 

Let  me  forget,  while  the  moments  are  flying, 

The  discords  of  life  that,  in  bitterness  crying, 

Tell  us  of  loveliness,  suffering,  dying, 
Tell  us  no  tale  but  ends  in  a  sigh. 

Far  in  the  distance  I  hear  the  waves  rolling 
On  with  the  sound  of  the  trampling  sea ; 

Aloft  from  yon  tower  the  death-bells  are  tolling 
Out  admonitions  to  me  and  to  thee ; 
6z 


SUSPIRIA. 

Rest  there  is  none  for  the  feet  that  grow  weary 
In  scaling  the  heights,  and  all  nature,  though  cheery, 
Yet  chants  to  herself  a  low  miserere  — 
Maybe  a  dirge  for  the  souls  that  go  free. 

Sleep  !  let  me  rest  till  the  gates  that  are  golden 

Turn  on  the  hinge  of  melodious  sound  ; 
Let  my  lone  couch  be  the  forest  whose  olden 

Trunks  and  gnarled  arms  keep  the  shadows  around. 
Me,  like  the  oaks  beneath  deep  mosses  sleeping, 
No  care  shall  disturb  of  busy  winds  creeping 
O'er  my  low  couch,  nor  where  they  are  heaping 
It  high  with  the  leaves  that  whirl  o'er  the  ground. 


UNPHILOSOPHT. 

In  the  harp  of  life  some  chord  makes  moan, 
In  the  moving  throng  some  eye  grows  dim, — 

That  note,  that  tear  for  me, 
Doth  touch  great  nature's  heart ;  nor  sweeter  hymn 

Hath  upward  flown 

Than  this  from  thee, 

My  sweet  unknown ! 

And  nobler  far 

I  ever  hold  are  unknown  friends, 
And  seek  to  fathom  choicer  ends, 

Than  trysting  lovers  are, 
Whose  burning  kiss  is  thrice  repaid 
When  hearts  in  foolish  masquerade 

Their  mystic  gates  unbar ; 

The  silver  rays  of  yon  lone  star, 
That  span  the  leaning  centuries, 
Fall  down  in  clearer  light  than  these 

Poor  earth-bought  gleams  of  ours  that  scar 
The  eyes  they  light  amid  the  shade. 

What  desert  bloom, 
What  flower  doth  blush  but  lades  the  air 

That  hurries  by  with  its  perfume, 

What  star  is  lit  but  doth  illume 
The  dusky  night's  disheveled  hair 

That  floats  above  the  gloom  ! 
64 


UNPHILOSOPHT. 

The  ranging  years 

Are  thickly  sown  with  sound  of  glee, 
That  fade  into  the  melody 

And  music  of  the  spheres, 
Where  wishes  all  unvoiced  combine 
In  harmonies  far  too  divine 

For  earth's  most  tuneful  ears  ; 

'Tis  sweet  to  think  these  hopes  and  tears 
Do  thrill  the  universe  of  mind, 
In  some  dim  way  and  undefined ; 

So  love,  and  not  love's  source,  appears 
To  bind  thy  bleeding  heart  and  mine. 

And  the  sum  of  all  that  we  enthrone 
In  this  life  of  sacrifice  and  love 

Is  full  of  voiceless  prayer, 
And  each  of  us  doth  climb  the  stars  above 

Not  all  alone, 

For  thou  art  there, 

O  sweet  unknown  ! 


'  OH,  LIFE  IS  FAIR.' 

Oh,  life  is  fair  when  the  eyes  are  bright 
Aud  the  heart  is  strong,  I  trow, 

But  day  is  followed  by  depths  of  night  — 
Then  merrily  heave,  ye  ho ! 

Oh,  sweet  is  death  when  the  hair  turns  gray 
And  the  pulse  beats  weak  and  slow, 

For  night  is  followed  by  golden  day  — 
Then  merrily  heave,  ye  ho ! 


66 


NINA  GLENCAIRN. 

Nina  Glencairn,  thy  cheeks  are  red 
Like  flushing  dawn  —  what  hath  he  said  t 

Naught  hath  he  said  to  me ;  no  tone 
Falls  from  his  lips  for  me  alone. 

Nina  Glencairn,  thy  word  belies 
The  hope  that  lives  within  thine  eyes. 

With  thy  cold  face,  pray  what  to  thee 
Is  aught  of  this,  or  yet  of  me? 

Nina  Glencairn,  thy  heart  I  know. 
Learn  thou  his  faith,  and,  thus,  my  woe. 

Thy  story's  false,  as  false  as  thou; 
He  ne'er  was  thine,  nor  thine  his  vow. 

Nina  Glencairn,  though  time  hath  flown, 
Why  is  thy  face  so  like  mine  own  ? 

Alas !  the  blush  of  hope  is  fled, 
The  rose  of  love  lies  withered,  dead. 

Nina  Glencairn,  like  one  who  gropes 
We  loved,  in  him,  ideal  hopes 
That,  fading  roselike,  leave  the  smart 
And  dust  of  life  upon  the  heart. 
67 


CLASS  POEM,  1889. 

I. 

To  me,  who  am  the  mere  historian 

Of  what  has  softly  touched  our  common  life, 
Or  waked  within  the  unlit  depths  a  strife 

That  thrilled  our  being  to  the  inmost  man, 
The  task  is  sweet ;  for  all  the  air  is  rife 
With  eloquence  and  glory  of  the  past, 
Whose  golden  rays,  projected  forward,  cast 

A  brightness  on  ahead  for  us  to  scan 

The  hidden  eyes  of  years  unborn,  whose  plan 
We  fain  would  know ;  and  how  our  secret  hopes 
will  last. 

II. 

O  that  the  spirit  of  passing  years, 

That  bathes  in  life's  broad  noon-day  glare, 

On  pinions  strong 

Would  wing  my  words  with  rounded  spheres 
Of  passion  light,  that  I  might  dare 
The  ether  height  of  song  ! 
But  unassumingly  I  bring 
My  cull  of  blushing  flowers,  and  fling 
Them  on  the  air ; 
68 


CLASS  POEM,  1889. 

For,  chastened  by  no  fiery  hand  of  wrong, 

The  soul  of  passion,  slumbering, 

Doth  ever  leave  a  humbler  muse  to  sing 
A  gentle  theme  of  memory,  hopes,  and  fears ; 
A  melting  threnody  that  moves  the  throng 

With  its  sad  undertone  of  tears ; 

Or  silver  melodies  that  ring 
A  truer  note,  and  ripple  o'er  with  laughter, 
While,  in  the  silences  that  follow  after, 

No  hollow  mockery  appears. 

III. 

At  last  we  gather  here,  but  no  one  feels 
Such  leaping  joy  as  trysting  lovers  know, 

Nor  bitter  grief; 

A  sweet,  sad  earnestness  throws  in  relief 
The  joy  we  once  did  think,  so  long  ago, 
Would  fill  our  hearts,  for  memory  steals 
Across  the  soul  and,  wistful,  garners  slow 
A  quaint,  rich  sheaf 
The  glooming  past  reveals. 
We  meet  once  more  full  four  years  gone, 
And  yet  not  lost  within  the  haze 

That  narrows  fast ; 

Four  years !  to  take  a  view  of  what  has  passed 
We  halt  a  moment's  space  —  receding  days, 
69 


CLASS  POEM,  1889. 

On  which  some  gleam  of  glory  shone, 
Will  glow  an  instant  with  reflected  rays, 

And  then  at  last 
We'll  slowly  turn  and  journey  on. 

IV. 

Though  life  in  all  its  wide  perplexities 

Be  but  a  tangled  skein 

Of  passion,  love,  and  pain, 
And  in  the  years  that  disappear  like  these, 
In  every  day  that  fades,  one  sees 

Some  sad  farewell  draw  near, — 
Another  step  in  that  old  story 

Of  love  and  gain,  of  death  and  loss  and  fear ; 

Yet  with  it  comes  a  misty  atmosphere 
Shot  through  with  golden  glory. 

And  over  all  those  jarring  chords  there  rolls 
The  organ  harmony  of  bygone  days, 
Too  rare  and  sweet  for  spoken  phrase 

To  sing  its  mystic  sounds  to  other  souls. 

V. 

O  spirit,  thou  of  Happiness ! 

Whate'er  doth  lie  between 

Thy  full,  sweet  life  and  ours,  this  is  thy  fair  demesne 
And  here  thy  courts ;  thou  dost  possess 

70 


CLASS  POEM,  i 

With  song  these  earthly  palaces, 
The  dark  elms  speak  about  thee, 
These  walls  were  dead  without  thee, 
Nor  in  the  parting  throngs,  I  ween, 
Which  the  receding  years  have  seen, 
Breathes  there  a  soul  that  e'er  would  doubt  thee. 
There  is  a  voice  among  these  echoing  walks 
None  may  escape, 
And  it  doth  shape 
Itself  to  our  most  transient  mood, 
E'en  as  the  spirit  of  a  mighty  solitude 

In  unheard  numbers  talks. 
Thy  presence  night  and  day  doth  brood 
O'er  thine  and  beauty's  lovers, 
Like  a  majestic  interlude 

Of  golden  song  that  hovers 
On  the  verge  of  sense.     Whoso  discovers 
The  secret  of  thy  glad  omnipotence 
Can  voice  his  joy  in  no  soft  phrase  — 
One  silent  thrill,  true  life  is  won, 
He  feels  the  burning  ichor  run, 
A  pure  abandonment  of  soul  to  sense, 
An  utterness  of  life,  as  when  the  tents 
Of  night  are  swept  with  level  rays, 
And  the  long  splendor  of  the  morning  sun, 

In  floods  immense, 
Leaps  o'er  the  barrier  of  days. 
71 


CLASS  POEM,  1889. 

O  spirit  shy  !  a  pure  devotion, 
That  fronts  thy  quick,  unfathomed  gaze, 
Is  never  lost  —  thou  hast  thy  gala  days, 

When  piping  winds  from  off  the  ocean 

Do  stir  the  blood  to  wild  commotion, 
And  thy  face  the  salt  spray  half  betrays ; 

Or  soft  winds  breathing  o'er  the  sea 

Do  sing  a  sweet,  wild  melody, 

Transfusing  thee  and  me. 
Thy  trailing  garments  mount  the  eastern  chase 

In  many  a  purpling  dawn ; 
I  feel  them  sweep  across  my  face 

And  thrill  the  pulses  on ; 
Thy  parted  lips  are  wet  with  life's  best  wine, 
And  mere  existence  seems  a  thing  divine 

From  thine  own  beauty  drawn. 
Celestial  days  pursue  thy  flight 

Beyond  the  sunset's  golden  fruit, 

And,  joining  in  the  glad  pursuit, 
The  stars  just  silver  o'er  the  top  of  night 

With  floating  veils  of  ambient  light. 

Thou  one  fair  jewel  on  the  naked  breast  of  Time, 
Sweet  Beauty's  child,  O  Happiness ! 
Thou  art  alone  whom  morsels  bless 
And  seek  in  lives  sublime  ; 
72 


CLASS  POEM, 

For  thou  art  not  some  spirit  only 

Singing  sweet  in  realms  ideal, 
But  a  presence  with  the  lonely, 

Making  beautiful  the  real. 
Creation  is  but  half  completed 

Until  its  purposes  are  known, 

And  in  the  heart  that  rich,  deep  undertone 
Doth  wake  the  music  there  secreted 
To  harmonies  divine. 
Before  thy  mystic  shrine 

The  gage  of  years  to  us  is  thrown, 
And  thou  the  winner's  prize  ; 

Nor  doth  the  soul  of  manly  mould  incline 

To  shun  the  conflict,  nor  resign 
For  slothful  ease  the  glory  of  thine  eyes. 
We  only  grow  in  life  and  limb  as  we  enjoy 

A  pulse  beat  of  thy  life,  which  runs 

Coeval  with  the  ceaseless  suns, 

And  laden  deep  with  benisons ; 
For  youth  matured  in  thine  employ 

Assures  a  stature  of  heroic  size, 

A  soul  to  rule  the  destinies. 

Without  thee  living  were  a  dismal  thing, 
And  earth's  fair  face  a  haunted  tomb 

To  those  who  sing 
To-day  amid  her  heavy  gloom, 
10  73 


CLASS  POEM,  1889. 

This  hapless  scourge  of  suffering 
Which  thy  blythe  spirit  can  but  half  relume. 
But  thou  art  life  itself, 
And  not  some  fitful  elf, 
Whose  wanton  pleasure  is  our  joy  or  doom. 
I  see  thee  everywhere  —  the  rose's  bloom 

Contains  a  touch  of  thee, 
Meek  arbutus  and  modest  violet 
Are  but  expressions  of  a  life  that's  set 

Above  the  level  of  dull  misery. 
Thou  art  love's  sacred  complement, 
Immortal  Happiness, 
And  strivest  to  express 
The  trackless  realms  of  deep  content 
That  front  an  earnest  search  —  to  represent 

Thee  as  thou  art  were  such  success 
As  masters  win.     Thy  peerless  glance 
Breathes  fuller  life,  and  thy  fair  countenance 
Bent  full  on  us  were  immortality, 

Which  gods  alone  may  wear, 

And  we  may  only  share, 
O  Happiness,  by  winning  thee. 


74 


CLASS  POEM,  1889. 

•«* 
VI. 

Thus  we  have  dreamed  of  happiness, 
In  roaming  these  her  outer  courts, 
When  hoary  Time  himself  disports 
In  almost  Saturnalian  dress  ; 
But  in  this  round  of  gaiety,  no  less 

Than  in  more  sober  paths, 
There  spring  up  aftermaths. 
For  ceaselessly  the  days  have  poured 
Upon  us  all  Time's  thrilling  chrism, 

Which  sternly  scathes 
Unreasoning  youth's  optimism, 
Replacing  boyhood's  tinsel  sword 
With  manlier  brand  ;  which,  unimplored, 
Gives  purpose  that  diviner  touch  of  power 
That  crowns  all  with  accomplishment, 
The  noblest  dower 
To  manhood  lent. 
And  yet  these  years  together  spent 
Have  known  a  touch  of  pain, 
For  hearts  have  ached  though  lips  were  mute, 
And  many's  the  rift  within  the  lute 
That  ne'er  will  close  again. 


75 


CLASS  POEM,  1889. 


VII. 

Our  limited  horizon  amplifies 

The  lives  that  we  experience, 

And  this  is  true  is  no  strained  sense, 
That,  holding  selfhood  as  a  worthy  prize, 
And  life  as  more  than  mere  returning  memories, 
We  are  a  part  of  all  whom  we  may  meet. 
And  even  nature  aids  this  strange  conceit, 

For  sunset's  golden  lilies  sometimes  cast 

A  mellow  light  across  the  past 
To  fall  upon  some  half-forgotten  place, 

Where  faint  below  a  life's  debris 

We  yet  can  dimly  trace 
To  the  sweet  memories  of  some  pure  face 
Something  we  are,  or  much  we  hope  to  be. 

What  deep  unconscious  influence 
A  high  resolve  may  have  upon  the  soul, 
Which  aye  is  gathering  in  life's  toll, 
We  may  not  know  —  its  balances  are  set 

Upon  a  verge  so  delicate, 
Its  movements  lie  beyond  the  range  of  sense. 
We  see  the  sudden  tremors  that  commence 
A  life's  sharp  crisis, 


76 


CLASS  POEM,  i 

And  think  the  day  suffices 

To  explain  the  sore  suspense, 
Whose  springs  may  lie  back  in  the  buried  years 
Like  living  wraiths  of  dim-remembered  fears. 

The  mighty  hopes  that  thrill  the  central  heart 

Strike  root  deep  in  the  darkling  past  —  apart 
From  its  rich  legacy  but  little  worth  appears. 
The  mystical  far  sources 

Of  life,  and  those  magnetic  forces 

That  make  the  future  promise  crowned, 
Lie  in  the  hearty  grasp  of  hands  to-day, 
The  subtle  touch  that  minds  display 

When  hearts  in  reddest  blood  abound. 
The  strongest  tie  between  the  hearts  of  men, 

With  all  its  influences  rife, 

Is  that  of  common  life, 
Whose  subtle  currents  flow  beyond  our  ken, 
Transmuting  with  its  magic  touch,  e'en  when 

The  senses  reel  in  strife, 
The  sad  debris  of  weakness,  self,  and  passion 
Into  ideal  strength,  the  perfect  fashion 

Of  manhood  framed  on  classic  lines, 
Like  that  which  drank  of  springs  Parnassian, 

Or  quaffed  Etruscan  wines. 


77 


CL4SS  POEM,  1889. 

VIII. 

'Tis  not  to  wake  a  vain  regret, 

Or  stir  the  ashes  of  a  burnt-out  hope, 

That  I  repeat  old  thoughts,  or  blindly  grope 

In  scenes  on  which  the  sun  has  set ; 

But  bygone  pain  we  easily  forget, 

While  joys  that  lie  upon  the  eastern  slope 

Grow  mellow  as  the  years  roll  on ; 

As  hills  on  which  the  sun  has  shone 
Become  ethereal  in  the  afterglow 

Of  evening,  when  purpling  rosy  veils  are  drawn 
Across  the  Alpine  heights  of  snow. 


IX. 

As  one  who  lies  beneath  an  idle  sail 

Within  the  shelter  of  some  hollow  shore, 
And  hears  without  the  ocean's  sullen  roar, 

Where  billows  toss  their  white  caps  in  the  gale ; 

Who  ponders  on  some  medieval  tale, 
Or  musing  cons  an  ancient  poem  o'er, 
While,  drifting  on  the  tides  that  outward  pour, 

He  nears  the  main  where  tempest  shocks  prevail ; 
78 


CLASS  POEM,  7 

So  we  :  but  ere  we  cut  the  line  of  foam, 
While  rhymes  of  yesterday  still  fill  the  soul 

With  tenderness  and  memories  of  home, 
I  feel  the  influences  that  control 
Our  lives — the  shocks  of  conflict  that  enroll 

Us  in  the  lists  from  which  we  may  not  roam. 

X. 

Like  beacon  fires  of  olden  days 
That  flashed  their  tidings  on  from  peak  to  peak, 

In  leaping  rays, 

Across  j-Egean  wastes  and  headlands  bleak 
To  waiting  watch-towers  of  the  Greek ; 
From  the  grey  centuries  behind, 

Which  ever  backward  gaze, 
Comes  leaping  on  from  mind  to  mind 

That  bright  imperial  truth 
That  life  is  more  than  mere  existence, 

Or  drudgery  uncouth. 

The  golden  days  of  an  eternal  youth 
Belong  to  gods  alone,  while  in  the  distance 
The  shades  await  the  aimless  dreamer, 

Who  in  the  sunshine  vainly  tries 

To  linger,  scorning  the  sad  eyes 
Of  a  compassionate  redeemer, 
Among  the  flowers  in  dust-stained  guise. 

79 


CLASS  POEM,  1889. 

For  whoso  idty  jests  or  lingers 

Among  the  jocund  days  with  careless  laugh, 

Doth  hold  within  his  hands  the  chaff, 
While  through  his  nerveless  fingers 
Slips  the  yellow  grain  of  high  emprise. 

Returning  seasons  speak  to  him  an  empty  phrase, 
And  life's  best  wine  unnoticed  drips, 

In  tripping  rhyme, 
From  off  the  crowned  urn's  lips, 
Where  dwells  the  sunshine  of  the  passing  time, 

The  vintage  songs  for  other  days. 

XI. 

Where  ends  the  path  that  we  pursue, 
Whose  goal  lies  ever  just  beyond 

The  best  we  do  ? 
The  mocking  centuries  respond 
By  ceaseless  changes  that  renew 
Our  doubts.     What  legacy  they  held  in  bond, 

What  purposes  in  view, 
They  partially  reveal.     No  age 
Hath  e'er  possessed  its  own  ideal  heritage, 

Nor  fully  won  the  thing  for  which  it  fought. 
The  high-souled  wars  each  one  doth  wage 
Develop  needs  beyond  the  end  it  sought, 
Create  the  larger  spheres  another  age  will  fill 
80 


CLASS  POEM, 

And  pass  beyond,  until  the  noble  plan, 

For  which  men  toiled  and  wrought, 
Is  lost  within  the  broader  span 
That  ages  hold  in  trust  for  man. 

Our  paths  are  up  an  endless  hill 
Whose  steeps  are  ever  higher  than  the  last, 

Where  hope  doth  mount  and  fear  doth  stay, — 

To-day's  attainment  was  the  dream  of  yesterday, 
And  so  will  be  to-morrow's  past. 
The  soul  that  doth  most  fully  live 
Doth  soonest  find  that  life  is  relative. 

Ideal  beauty's  iris  wings  may  fade, 

Perfection's  soul  be  but  a  masquerade, 
Within  the  whiter  light  succeeding  summits  give. 
This  is  the  principle  of  all  advance, 

The  motive  power  that  thrills  the  soul, 

To  scorn  its  bitter  prison  dole ; 
And  turns  each  earnest  countenance 

Agaze  beyond  the  dungeon  bars, 

To  where  the  calm  eternal  stars 
Must  read  inviolate  laws  that  govern  change  and 
chance. 

XII. 

The  springs  of  life  are  hidden  deep 

In  ceaseless  change  and  dreams  of  spoil, 
II  81 


CLASS  POEM,  1889. 

Of  love  and  gain,  that  bid  us  keep 
Our  faith  and  footing  firm  upon  the  steep 
Where  shines  the  orient  light. 

Who  fails  to  touch  the  offered  hand  of  toil 
Can  scarcely  read  his  stars  aright, 
Nor  in  the  lily's  grace  take  full  delight 

Who  delves  not  in  the  mother  soil. 

The  birthplace  of  the  avalanche 
Is  up  amid  the  fields  of  ceaseless  snow, 
And  every  spring  that  feeds  the  vales  below 
Is  but  a  branch 

Of  gathering  life  above.     Most  staunch 
And  true  are  those  who've  fought  and  struggled  slow 
On  up  the  steeps  —  they  only  know 

The  worth  of  weary  races  run 

And,  like  the  eagle  in  the  sun, 
Can  face,  unblenching,  Fortune's  brightest  glow. 

Manhood's  rarest  prize  is  won 

In  the  battle  nobly  done 

Where  sure  defeat  appears. 
For  this  doth  lend  us  limbs  of  larger  mould, 

And  bid  us  fling  defiance  to  the  years 

That  gather  in  the  distance,  and  be  the  peers 
Of  fate,  the  heirs  of  centuries  untold. 


CLASS  POEM,  1889. 

XIII. 

With  such  A  path  marked  out  by  fate 
Before  the  march  began 
Of  blind,  impulsive  man, 
One  feels  the  awful  disproportionate 

Between  the  best  endowment  of  the  mind 
And  opportunities  that  lie  in  wait 

Protean-like  to  fret  mankind. 
Stalwart  manhood's  limbs  are  strong, 

But  scales  of  ages  blind  the  eyes, 

And  in  the  gloom  life's  mysteries 
Assume  dire  shapes  that  not  belong 
To  them;  e'en  in  these  days  we've  oft  gone  wrong, 
Or  through  the  years  so  highly  prized 
Life  went  in  masquerade,  for  unadvised 

Each  felt  a  love  that  is  not  tangible, 
A  hope  that  is  not  realized, 

And  now  a  fear  we  may  not  tell. 
Certain  it  is  that  in  the  blush  of  youth 
We  tread  too  fast  the  wine  press  which,  forsooth, 

Runs  out  as  red  as  blood,  and  we  believe, 
On  rushing  through  our  veins,  to  be  the  truth 

That  all  men  must  receive. 
So  some  with  souls  aflame  with  fond  desire 
To  set  the  world  to  rights,  have  strung  their  lyre 

Above  the  ken  of  those  whom  they  would  raise, 
83 


CLASS  POEM,  1889. 

Nor  stoop  to  reach  the  hearts  they  might  inspire 

With  level  words  and  downward  gaze. 
While  others  feel  the  hot  tide  surging  on, 
And  blindly  follow  whither  they  are  drawn, 

Nor  heed  the  lees  within  the  golden  cup, 
But,  grasping  at  life's  chance,  when  it  is  gone, 

They  turn  the  goblet  up. 
These  aimless  aspirations,  increate, 
Betray  a  lack  of  that  etherical  freight 

That  grapples  problems  of  the  market  place, 
Or  with  skillful  hand  unveils, 
Though  ancient  credence  rails, 
Before  God's  altar  Truth's  eternal  face. 

XIV. 

Nor  is  the  universe  so  narrowly  conceived 
That  truth  appears  the  same  to  all ; 

Not  so  achieved 
Heroic  deeds  that  honest  fame 
Hath  from  darkness  and  the  grave  retrieved 
To  cherish  in  its  deathless  flame 

When  life  is  glorified. 
For  truth,  the  clearest  gem 
Set  in  life's  diadem, 
Reflects  a  different  ray  from  every  side, 
And,  touching  mortals  open-eyed, 
Points  different  ways  to  them. 
84 


CLASS  POEM,  i 

Whither  thou  goest  I  will  go, 
Said  patient  Ruth, 
And  found  her  meed  of  truth 
Among  the  golden  corn  —  not  so 
The  summons  came  to  her  who  stayed  behind 

To  seek  her  place. 

The  direst  failure  of  the  narrow  mind 
Is  not  to  know  that  Truth's  pure  face 

Is  ever  ill-defined 

Within  the  misty  lights  that  color  space  ; 
But  all  can  feel  her  influence 
That  makes  the  soul  divinely  large 
To  grapple  with  its  high-born  charge, 
And  shape  incipient  events 
Into  a  graphic  coronal  of  grace. 

XV. 

The  mysteries  of  life  that  break  upon  us  here 

Grow  deeper  as  the  years  roll  on ; 

Those  sensuous  lights  of  early  dawn 
Are  chastened  as  the  zenith  point  draws  near. 
Vague  questionings  appear 

Within  the  whiter  light  of  manhood's  day ; 
Keen  whence  and  whither  throw  a  spell  of  fear 

Wherever  virile  intellect  may  stray  ; 

And  whoso  treads  life's  wider  curves 
Soonest  encounter  shadows  of  the  night, 

85 


CLASS  POEM,  i 

For  only  some  lone  mountain  height 

Eternal  purity  preserves. 

The  thrilling  touch  of  life  that  nerves 

A  soul  to  manlier  resolves, 

Although  it  be  divine,  involves 
A  chance  of  grief  or  death  ;  yet  not  in  vain 
Is  living  mixed  with  throbs  of  pain, 
For  only  when  the  sunlight  fades  before  us 
Do  the  distant  lights  of  heaven  break  o'er  us, 

And  present  loss  seem  future  gain. 

We  may  but  grasp  a  segment  of  the  plan 
That  governs  life  in  seeming  doom, 
Where  men  are  lost  within  the  gloom 

That  ministers  to  man. 

XVI. 

Heroic  deeds  we  ever  celebrate 
In  chiseled  lines  or  golden  song 

And  days  of  fete, 

Which  soothe  the  craving  of  the  throng 
That  unctiously  repeat  lip-homage  to  the  great. 
Oblivion,  that  cold,  hard  name 
That  swallows  up  what  most  men  do 

Is  never  satiate. 

Though  deeds  there  are  unsung  by  fame 
That  were  conceived  preeminently  true, 
For  simple  ends  beyond  the  common  view. 
86 


CLASS  POEM, 

Those  mighty  hopes  that  thrill  the  inner  sense, 

Not  deeds  alone,  do  make  us  men ; 

Oblivion's  cold  stream  or  stagnant  fen 
Can  never  fully  hide  their  influence. 
Unworthy  he  who  fears  he  may  not  win 
His  measures  of  success, 
Or  fortune's  coveted  caress  ; 
No  deed  that  chords  with  nature's  peerless  hymn 

Doth  die  unnoticed  on  the  universe, 

But  soon  becomes  a  giant  nurse 
To  stalwart  broods,  clad  in  the  vim 
Of  perfect  manhood,  tainted  with  no  curse 

Of  craven  feebleness. 

XVII. 

A  change  draws  on  —  here  ends  our  common  way, 
And  merges  into  duty's  rugged  path, 
Which  breathes  a  sterner  beauty  aye  than  hath 
Adorned  the  May-born  years  we  leave  to-day 

To  seek  the  aftermath. 
With  care  the  fronting  years  are  sown, 

That  bids  us  bear  our  manhood's  privilege 
As  though  it  were  a  sacred  pledge 
We  held  in  trust ;   to  let  our  faith  be  shown 
By  high  resolve  and  manly  deed, 

That  indicate  the  tone 
Of  earth's  most  grand,  heroic  breed. 
87 


CLASS  POEM,  1889. 

Defeat  shall  rectify  our  creed 
And  nerve  the  heart  to  stronger  blows, 

Or  where  possession  hath  been  lost, 

To  reckon  it  the  cost 
Of  opportunity  the  days  disclose. 

Laws  of  progress  bind  the  race, 

Change  is  mighty,  thought  is  king, 

Stalwart  minds  lead  on  apace 

Seeking  right  and  following 
Beyond  the  daylight's  outer  ring. 
For  him  who  manfully  doth  cope 

With  wrongs  and  hydra-headed  ills, 

Who  faithfully  his  part  fulfils, 
The  coming  years  are  big  with  hope, 
And  when  his  sun  goes  westering  o'er  the  twilight  hills 
Life's  sweetest  joys  will  wait  him  on  the  evening  slope. 

XVIII. 

The  change  is  on  us  —  it  is  meet 

That  we  should  gather  here  once  more 

Where  first  we  met,  and  thus  complete 

The  circle  of  the  years  whose  silent  feet 

Has  hither  brought  the  parting,  where  —  my  task 
is  o'er. 


LATER  POEMS. 


THE  JESTER'S  RETURN. 

RONDEL. 

Back  into  court  with  his  oldtime  graces 
The  Jester  steps  with  his  smile  of  yore, 
And  the  motley  garb  that  he  whilom  wore 

At  feasts  with  ladies  and  lords  in  laces. 

His  sleep  of  ages  hath  left  no  traces 

That  the  world  hath  wept  since  he  laughed 
before ;  — 

Back  into  court  with  his  oldtime  graces 
The  Jester  steps  with  his  smile  of  yore. 

With  nod  and  quip  he  salutes  new  faces 
And  thrusts  as  of  old  to  the  bosom's  core, 
For  he  wears  the  blade  that  he  onetime  bore 
When  he  fenced  with  kings  in  feudal  places ;  — 
Back  into  court  with  his  oldtime  graces 
The  Jester  steps  with  his  smile  of  yore. 


A  WHILOM  LOYE, 

She  goeth  by  !  Her  modest  smile 
Hath  all  its  oldtime  artless  lure, 
But  there  is  something  more  demure 

Than  in  the  pleasant  summer  while. 

She  walketh  down  the  church's  aisle, 
Of  every  eye  the  cynosure, 
While  swelling  organ  tones  conjure 

A  scene  to  me  of  different  style. 

(In  summer  hills  her  artless  guile 
Had  waked  my  love,  made  it  mature, 
Nor  did  she  then  her  own  deny.) 

The  music  sinketh  soft  and  shy, 
Her  answers  said  in  tones  so  pure, 
The  ring  is  on,  the  bond  secure, 

The  organ  peals  aloft,  while  I 

Remember  well  a  sunset  sky, 

(Her  sweet  "yes"  made  it  seem  obscure  !) 
But  well  may  I  that  glimpse  endure, 

For  she?  —  with  me  she  goeth  by  ! 


TRIOLET. 

For  the  hours  that  are  past 
Sing  no  miserere ; 

But  let  buskins  trip  fast 

For  the  hours  that  are  past. 

Since  new  chances  thou  hast 
To  be  ever  so  cheery, 

For  the  hours  that  are  past 
Sing  no  miserere ! 


93 


RONDEAU. 

In  Lenten  time  Phyllis  beguiles 
The  sober  time  with  tender  wiles, — 
She  paces  down,  with  drooping  eyes 
Where  Cupid  lurks  in  fair  disguise, 
The  solemn  length  of  dim  church  aisles. 

All  graces  that  the  time  exiles 
From  merry  waltz  or  rhythmic  files 
Doth  Phyllis  breathe  into  her  sighs, 
In  Lenten  time ; 

And  humble  swains  wait  at  the  stiles 
To  help  her  pass,  or  walk  for  miles 
To  cull  the  flower  that  first  defies  — 
For  her,  it  seems, —  the  rheumy  skies;- 
She  greets  them  all  with  winning  smiles, 
In  Lenten  time. 


94 


TRIOLET. 

My  heart  gave  a  bound, 

Of  that  I  am  certain  ! 
Dusk  softly  fell  round, 
My  heart  gave  a  bound, 
For  eyes  deeply  browned 

Peeped  out  through  the  curtain. 
My  heart  gave  a  bound, 

Of  that  I  am  certain. 


95 


RONDEAU. 

Forget-me-not !  may  you  not  fade 

Until  your  petaled  ambuscade 

Hath  told  the  hope  that  softly  lies 
Unto  my  Ladie's  darkling  eyes 

Where  Cupid  waits  in  masquerade. 

And  sweetly  as  your  hue,  which  strayed 
One  day  from  heaven's  choicest  shade, 
Say  unto  her  when  daylight  dies, 
Forget  me  not ! 

Be  never  silent,  nor  afraid 

To  touch  her  lips  —  my  pencil  swayed  — 
With  all  thy  tenderness  that  vies 
In  grace  with  fair  Italian  skies, 

And  chime  this  ceaseless  serenade, 
Forget  me  not ! 


96 


'  WHEN  PHYLLIS  MO^ES.' 

When  Phyllis  moves,  a  host  of  friends 
Upon  her  slightest  wish  attends : 

Unconstant  they  as  clouds  that  fly 

Across  the  opal  evening  sky 
And  fade  away  when  daylight  ends. 

Yet  constant  as  that  sky  that  bends, 
Or  like  her  shadow,  with  her  wends 
Kind  Father  Time,  and  ditto  I, 
When  Phyllis  moves. 

Yclad  is  he  in  garb  that  lends 

The  air  of  suitor  as  he  bends 

To  touch  her  lips  in  passing  by, 

And  leave  a  gem  —  they  both  know  why ; 

While  I — my  heart  his  taste  commends, 
When  Phyllis  moves. 


13  97 


TRIOLET. 

Once  Cupid  grew  shy, 

When  he  was  out  Maying, 

Where  daisies  stood  high, 

Once  Cupid  grew  shy, 

As  he  heard  you  trip  by 

On  the  path  he  was  straying. 

Once  Cupid  grew  shy, 

When  he  was  out  Maying. 


98 


RONDEAU. 

St.  Valentine,  tell  her  for  me, — 
You  cannot  miss  My  Lady  —  she 
Is  kind  as  thou,  like  lilies  fair, 
The  gloom  of  twilight's  on  her  hair 
Or  sweeter  lights  —  when  vis-a-vis. 

Her  eyes  are  like  a  darkling  sea, 
When  lovelight  shines  —  is  it  for  thee? 
But  that's  a  secret  none  may  dare, 
St.  Valentine. 

Her  lips  are  those  as  you'll  agree 
That  tempt  a  man — in  reverie  — 

To  bend  and  take  the  red  wine  there. 

Then  tell  her  this  —  I  do  declare 
The  lines  are  full  as  full  can  be, 
St.  Valentine. 


99 


BALLAD  OF  EXPERIENCE. 

{Bachelor  in  his  chambers  loquitur.*} 

When  the  perfumes  of  springtime  are  thick  on  the  air, 

And  the  violets  blush  by  the  hedge  on  the  way, 
Every  sound  is  a  song,  and  forgotten  is  care, 

For  the  pulse  in  such  hours  doth  beat  love's  reveille  ; 

But  the  heart  may  be  sated  with  murmurs  of  May, 
And  weariness  mar  Spring's  exquisite  rhyme ; 

Yet  whatever  the  mood,  be  it  solemn  or  gay, 
Oh,  give  me  the  magic  of  holiday  time. 

In  the  midsummer  twilight  the  moments  are  rare 

When  a  smile  will  not  sweeten  the  close  of  the  day, 
And  the  smile  be  a  challenge  that  no  man  may  dare, 

For  the  pulse  in  such  hours  doth  beat  love's  reveille. 

But  whenever  the  heart  its  full  depths  would  display, 
And  would  ransom  his  life  by  venial  crime, 

Tho'  a  sweet  pair  of  eyes  may  half  utter  a  "Nay," 
Oh,  give  me  the  magic  of  holiday  time. 

And  a  stroll  thro'  the  woodlands  where  breezes  blow 
fair, 

Where  the  copses  are  nodding  in  Autumn  array, 
May  end  at  the  altar,  or  yet  in  despair, 

For  the  pulse  in  such  hours  doth  beat  love's  reveille. 

100 


BALLAD  OF  EXPERIENCE. 

But  if  I  to  a  maiden  my  heart  would  betray 
In  a  manner  affecting,  or  touch  the  sublime, 

And  would  win  with  a  kiss  a  lingering  "Yea," 
Oh,  give  me  the  magic  of  holiday  time. 

ENVOY. 

Yet  in  matters  like  this  most  hearts  are  au  fait, 
For  the  pulse  in  such  hours  doth  beat  love's  reveille; 
But  for  bachelor  ease,  and  my  pipe  in  its  prime, 
Oh,  give  me  the  magic  of  holiday  time. 


10) 


RONDEL. 

Yule-tide  airs  are  sown  with  fancies 
Of  holly  branch  and  mistletoe, 
As  breezes  heap  the  falling  snow 

Upon  the  pane  where  firelight  glances. 

Vender's  a  shadow  —  mine  and  Nancy's, 
Over  us  both  red  berries  glow ; 

Yule-tide  airs  are  sown  with  fancies 
Of  holly  branch  and  mistletoe. 

The  hour  is  rife  with  extravagances 

And  weaves  a  spell  it  alone  may  know, 
When  only  tall,  weird  shadows  show 
How  as  the  mystic  eve  advances 
Yule-tide  airs  are  sown  with  fancies. 


NORTH. 

Back  to  the  tune  of  sleighbells  ringing, 

Grey  Christmas  comes  with  his  smile  of  yore, 
And  he  sings  to  himself  as  he  hath  before 

The  angels'  song  that  all  hearts  are  singing. 

With  a  rime  of  frost  to  his  white  beard  clinging, 
And  merry  calls  at  each  bolted  door, 

Back  to  the  tune  of  sleighbells  ringing, 

Grey  Christmas  comes  with  his  smile  of  yore. 

Peace  like  a  bride  in  his  train  he  is  bringing, 
And  Goodwill,  rich  in  the  Magi's  lore ; 
While  cheer,  that  goes  to  each  bosom's  core, 
Comes  like  a  rush  of  sweet  love  winging 
Back  to  the  tune  of  sleighbells  ringing. 


103 


SOUTH. 

Back  to  the  realm  of  deathless  roses 

Glad  Christmas  comes  with  the  rhyme  of  song, 
And  he  hymns  it  aloud  as  he  speeds  along, 

That  star-born  theme  that  all  hearts  engrosses. 

With  a  wealth  of  flowers  that  the  eve  imposes, 
And  words  of  love  that  do  ring  so  strong, 

Back  to  the  realm  of  deathless  roses 

Glad  Christmas  comes  with  the  rhyme  of  song. 

Poetry  swells  in  the  bosom  that  proses, 
Restfulness  touches  the  rushing  throng, 
And  love,  that  pardons  the  bleeding  wrong, 

Comes  like  the  flush  as  daylight  closes 

Back  to  the  realm  of  deathless  roses. 


104 


ON  THE  STILE. 

RONDEAU. 

If  smiles  were  all,  then  it  were  more 
Than  bliss  enough  to  wander  o'er 

These  moonlit  walks  beneath  thy  smile, 
And  dream  this  glen  some  spicy  isle 
With  soft  waves  lapping  on  the  shore. 

There  in  the  ocean's  sullen  roar, 

Translated  by  Love's  mystic  lore, 
Were  whispers  sweet  as  Vivien's  wile, 
If  smiles  were  all. 

And  in  my  bosom's  inmost  core 
Were  rest  serene — but  I  adore, 
And  let  me  dream  the  little  while 
The  slim  moon  silvers  o'er  the  stile, 
As,  in  Elysian  nights  of  yore, 
If  smiles  were  all. 


105 


SERENADE. 

Oh,  sweet  thro'  the  trembling  air 

In  the  balmy  hour  of  night, 
The  stars  reach  down  with  their  silver  dust 

To  bathe  thy  face  in  light ; 
And  I  dream  of  a  flight  with  thee 

Away  thro'  the  crystal  deep, 
Beating  on  wings  to  starry  spheres, 

While  the  world  rolls  on  in  sleep. 

Where  the  music,  faint  and  rare 

As  the  breath  of  a  secret  love, 
Sounds  like  the  sweep  of  folding  wings 

In  the  starry  world  above ; 
When  the  throbbing  ether  bends 

With  odors  that  never  die, 
And  soul  with  soul  in  a  fond  embrace 

Keep  tryst  in  the  opal  sky. 

Oh,  list  to  the  stars  that  plead 

While  the  airs  of  night  breathe  low, 
Turn  to  this  soul  that  faints  and  fails 

As  the  tides  of  life  run  slow  ; 
Life  for  a  life  and  a  love  for  love ! 

Turn  ere  the  voice  grows  dumb, 
And  rain  thy  kisses  upon  my  lips, 

And  rest  on  my  bosom — come  ! 


106 


A  WINNING  PAIR. 

VILLANELLE. 

Let  the  zithern  awake  and  the  castanets  ring, 
And  the  night  winds  a  burden  of  melody  bear, 
When  the  sweet  queen  of  hearts  doth  wed  diamond's 
king. 

Where  no  perfume  the  Orient  hastens  to  bring, 
For  her  soul  is  like  fragrant  Arabia's  air; 
Let  the  zithern  awake  and  the  castanets  ring. 

Let  the  gold  ships  of  India  at  anchorage  swing, 
For  all  hearts  are  at  ease,  and  an  exile  is  care, 
When  the  sweet  queen  of  hearts  doth  wed  diamond's 
king. 

And  this  bride  with  the  grace  of  a  white  rose  doth  cling 
To  the  side  of  the  red,  with  his  wealth  and  to  spare ; 
Let  the  zithern  awake  and  the  castanets  ring. 

On  their  couch  heap  the  bloom  of  a  violet  Spring, 
For  the  gods  have  made  this  a  victorious  pair, 
When  the  sweet  queen  of  hearts  doth  wed  diamond's 
king. 

And  the  years  will  away  on  an  aether-dipped  wing, 
For  young  love  never  dies  where  no  trouble  may  dare — 
Let  the  zithern  awake  and  the  castanets  ring, 
When  the  sweet  queen  of  hearts  doth  wed  diamond's 

king. 

107 


MADRIGAL. 

Touch  the  lute 

With  loving  fingers, 

Sing  a  sweet,  low  greeting  song ; 
Like  the  breath  that  often  lingers 

After  vocal  chords  are  mute  ;  — 

Touch  the  lute  with  loving  fingers 

To  the  fancy's  firelight  throng, 

Breathe  a  sweet,  low  Christmas  carol 
To  them,  robed  in  bright  apparel, 
And  to  me,  whose  heart  is  where  all 

Hearts  must  be  when  love  grows  strong. 

Touch  the  lute  and  voice  the  fancies 

That  unto  the  eve  belong, 

Read  me  how  this  spell  entrances 
All  who  visit — yet  I  know  : 

Haunted  surely  this  old  manse  is 

By  these  eyes  and  lips,  sweet  Nancy's, 
And  we're  'neath  the  mistletoe! 

Touch  no  lute 

With  loving  fingers ! 

While  this  sweeter  music  lingers, 

Be  it  mute  ! 


108 


THRICE  CROWNED. 

When  she  walked  among  the  flowers, 
Smiling  at  the  idling  hours, 

Sipping  joys  they  brought, 
Like  a  naiad  of  the  wood 
Was  she  crowned  with  all  that's  good, 
In  her  sweetest  maidenhood  ; 
That  is  best,  I  thought. 

Days  went  by.     I  saw  her  stand 
Clasping  love  with  either  hand, 

Whom  she  was  to  wed. 
Crowned  with  wifehood's  sacred  blush, 
Souls  grew  large  with  love's  sweet  rush, 
In  that  peaceful  afterhush  ; 

That  is  best,  I  said. 

Years  had  gone.      I  saw  her  face 
Crowned  with  more  than  wifehood's  grace, 

Madonna-like  to  view. 
Noblest,  sweetest,  grandest  yet 
Who  wears  this  thrice  gemmed  coronet ; 
Beauty,  grace,  and  love  had  met ; 

She  was  best,  I  knew. 


109 


'CEASE  TOUR  SONG.' 

Cease  your  song ! 

For  love  is  going, 
Like  the  sunny  flighted  swallow, 
Where  my  feet  can  never  follow, 
Leaving  hearts  and  nest-homes  hollow. 
Cease  your  song,  for  love  is  going, — 
Music  should  be  kept  for  mating, 
When  the  chords  with  love  vibrating 
Tell  of  hearts  that  end  long  waiting. 

Cease  your  song — 
Loneliness  is  now  bestowing 
Twilight  calm  that  one,  not  knowing, 
Might  not  notice  in  the  throng ; 
But  the  afterglow's  rare  splendor, 
Over  lawn  and  river  flowing, 
Bids  my  lone  heart  not  surrender 
Memories  as  deep  and  tender 
As  the  deepness  of  the  wrong. 
List  the  night  wind's  dreary  blowing, 

Cease  your  song, 
For  love  is  going. 


BALLAD  OF  THE  TEARS. 

(On  a  rage  de  son  caeur.} 

In  the  afternoon,  out  from  the  leafy  shade 

That  doth  bud  with  the  wealth  of  the  purple  vine, 
Here  re-echoes  the  rhyme  of  a  rich  roulade, 

For  the  hour  may  be  told  by  the  sun's  decline  ; 
And  so  e'en  with  the  ripening  song-charged  wine, 

Its  age  may  be  known  by  its  taste  and  flow, 
But  though  years  may  be  marked  by  the  furrowed  line, 

Still  one  is  as  young  as  his  heart,  I  trow. 

And  across  the  breast  of  the  clover  glade, 

In  the  shadows  that  lengthen,  the  patient  kine 
To  the  low  pasture  bars  have  ranged  and  stayed, 

For  the  hour  may  be  told  by  the  sun's  decline ; 
Or  without  in  the  heat  of  a  life's  sunshine; 

The  days  that  have  faded  the  world  may  know, 
And  the  years  that  are  gone  a  phrase  confine, 

Still  one  is  as  young  as  his  heart,  I  trow. 

In  the  hush  of  the  evening  day-tints  fade, 
And  the  roses  that  over  the  trellis  twine 

Whisper  softly,  "Good  night,"  to  the  trysting  maid, 
For  the  hour  may  be  told  by  the  sun's  decline ; 

in 


BALLAD   OF  THE  TEARS. 

And  the  army  of  measures  the  years  combine, 

The  deep  furrows  of  care  and  the  hair  like  snow, 

May  have  guessed  the  truth  of  your  age  and  mine  — 
Still  one  is  as  young  as  his  heart,  I  trow. 

I 

ENVOY. 

Let  the  busy  world  plod  in  its  treadmill  shrine, 
For  the  hour  may  be  told  by  the  sun's  decline, 
And  the  niggard  years  challenge  the  rich  blood's 

glow  — 
Still  one  is  as  young  as  his  heart,  I  trow. 


'THOUGHT  IS  TOUNG.' 

Thought  is  young;   though  ages  roll, 
And  the  thinkers  pass  and  die, 

Still  the  springs  that  feed  the  soul 
Flow  afresh  eternally. 


15  113 


SONNET. 

Ay  loved  and  lost !   the  leaden  hours  drag  by, 
The  Summer  goes,  and  Winter  days  resume 
Their  icy  robes,  and  spread  across  thy  tomb 

A  spotless  garment,  which  like  thee  doth  lie, 

As  calm,  as  cold,  in  matchless  purity ; 

A  sorrow  haunts  my  heart  with  sullen  gloom 
And  calm  despair,  when  love's  once  rich  perfume 

Filled  every  hour  that  sped  across  the  sky. 

The  waking  Spring  removes  the  icy  chill 

That  folds  around  thy  tomb  its  frosty  breath, 

Red  roses  bloom  again  upon  the  hill, 

And  white  ones  o'er  thy  head,  but  nothing  saith 

To  my  dead  heart,  that  lieth  there  as  still, 

That  death  was  aught  to  me  and  thee  but  death. 


114 


AN  IMITATION  OF  BROWNING. 

Thanks  for  your  thinking  I  could  do  a  thing 

Like  that.      A  weak  kneed  kind  of  honesty, 

You  see,  I  have,  which  apes  my  simple  soul 

And  frankly  tells  you  flattery  is  sweet. 

And  sweet  that  you  should  think  me  abler  than, 

With  all  my  struggles  in  that  way,  I  am, 

That  one  should  think  me  strong  to  pen  such  thought 

As  those  that  touch  the  soul  like  jets  of  blood 

That  from  the  fountain  of  God's  own  great  heart, 

And  words  that  wheel  concentric  to  one  point, 

Whose  singing  robes  are  all  aflame  with  truth, 

Held  in  their  swinging  orbits  by  no  hand 

Save  only  the  full  beat  of  melody. 

This  sweet  suspicion  that  you  crown  me  with 

Doth  seem  to  raise  me  up  above  myself, 

Endowing  me  with  almost  power  enough 

To  coin  into  a  rich  intaglio's  grace 

An  hour's  intoxication  of  the  brain 

In  perfect  union  with  the  pulsing  heart, 

Which  all  men  must  at  times  experience. 

Strange  you  should  think  I  wrote  the  lines, 
And  yet  I'm  proud  that  you  did  think  of  me. 
It  makes  the  light  lean  softer  on  the  lawn, 
And  these  broad  trees  to  croon  their  secrets  out 

"5 


AN  IMITATION  OF  BROWNING. 

More  clearly  to  my  waiting,  dreamy  soul. 

It  pleases  little  minds,  and  great  ones  too, 

To  fancy  them  creators  of  a  thing 

That  breathes  an  atmosphere  of  life, 

Or  robes  itself  in  use  or  beauty's  folds ; 

For  little  minds  and  great,  to  measure  them 

By  what  is  done,  touch  not  each  other's  sphere  ; 

But  take  the  truest  measure,  what  might  be, 

And  they  touch  hands  across  the  shrinking  chasm. 

"The  poem  sounds  like  that"  ?    You  think  you  catch 

In  those  magnetic  lines  some  trick  of  mine  ? 

'Tis  I  who  am  the  borrower  from  them ! 

The  ringing  sound  yet  beats  within  my  brain, 

And  fadeless  fragrance  lies  upon  my  heart. 

Deep  thoughts,  once  born  into  a  reader's  soul, 

Unconsciously  will  ever  reappear. 

And  yet  I  love  you  better  that  you  find 

Some  thing  in  them  like  me.      It  shows  you  see 

I  sympathize  with  those  deep  poet  thoughts 

I  never  could  express.      What,  going  now  ? 

'Tis  strange — Well,  good  by,  sweet,  till  gloaming 

comes. 
Watch  for  your  unknown  friend's  next  verse  !     Good 

bye! 

116 


AN  IMITATION  OF  BROWNING. 

And  yet  it  is  not  strange  I  wrote  those  lines, 
With  thy  pure  soul  unlocked  for  me  to  read 
The  regal  glories  of  an  unknown  realm. 
Oh,  lip  to  lip  and  soul  to  soul  with  thee, 
I  feel  how  dull  the  flame  within  those  lines, 
How  faint  the  melody  that  breathes  in  them. 
Once  more  I'll  copy  down  a  hidden  song 
And  send  it  to  the  magazine  unsigned, 
That  I  may  hear  her  tender  wondering. 
And  yet  were  it  not  wrong  to  filch  the  truth 
From  her  sweet  heart,  and  write  the  music  down 
To  win  those  sweet  suspicions  with?     I'll  wait ! 


117 


HOPE. 

Beautiful  dream  of  my  youth, 
Thou  art  identified  long, 
Daughter  of  Beauty  and  Truth, 
Born  in  the  lull  of  a  song. 
Thine  were  the  issues  of  life, 
Wisdom  thy  ultimate  prize, 
Viewing  the  kingdom  of  strife 
With  thine  ineffable  eyes. 
Only  thy  passionate  glances 
Breathing  a  purpose  divine, 
Doth  the  world's  beauty  enhance 
Till  the  ideal  be  mine. 
Tarry  thy  flight  for  an  hour, 
If  separation  must  come, 
Furnish  thy  worshiper  power 
To  smile  with  the  lips  that  be  dumb. 


118 


THE  GREAT  DIVIDE.' 


Over  the  great  divide, 

What  shall  we  see  ? 

Life  has  had  grandeurs  and  sights  sublime, 
Beauties  with  horrors  have  filled  all  time, 
Moments  have  fled  With  a  halting  rhyme  ; 
But  on  the  other  side, 

What  shall  it  be  ? 

Over  the  great  divide, 

What  shall  we  know  ? 

Life  has  been  teeming  with  hopes  and  dreams, 
Visions  of  darkness  with  sunlit  gleams 
Shot  in  between  them  like  golden  seams  ; 
But  on  the  other  side, 

What  shall  it  show  ? 

Over  the  great  divide, 

What  shall  it  be  ? 

Infinite  silence  broods  there  like  sleep, 
Infinite  questionings  ford  the  deep  ; 
Finite  the  answer,  and  that  we  keep. 
Death  !  on  the  other  side 
Shall  any  see  ? 


119 


'  OVER   THE  GREAT 


Over  the  great  divide? 

Fruitless  to  ask  ! 
Infinite  silence  is  there  for  me  ; 
Infinite  burdens  we  may  not  flee 
Lie  on  the  brain  here,  the  heart,  and  knee  ! 
Not  on  the  other  side,  — 
Here  is  our  task. 


AT  EASTERTIDE. 

At  Eastertide,  when  soft  winds  blow 
Across  the  Northern  hills  of  snow, 
Tall  lilies  nod  in  breaking  bloom, 
And,  nodding,  lade  with  rich  perfume 
The  airs  that  wander  to  and  fro. 

And  organ  voices,  soft  and  low 
As  is  the  thrill  of  deep  love's  flow, 
Doth  fill  dim  aisles  that  lie  in  gloom, 
At  Eastertide. 

Old  thoughts  come  stealing  sweet  and  slow, 
Of  loves  gone  by  long  years  ago ; 

But  from  that  distant  rock-hewn  tomb 
Hope  always  shines  across  our  doom, 
With  breath  of  lilies  row  on  row, 
At  Eastertide. 


16 


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1199   Poems. 
RRR2p 


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A  001  372636  9 


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